


Four little letters

by grelleswife



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M, Gift Giving, Misgendering, Othello loves his lady, Trans Female Character, Transphobia, and wants the other reapers to acknowledge her as one too!, as he should
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23455597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grelleswife/pseuds/grelleswife
Summary: Fed up with the transphobia Grelle endures at the office, Othello takes matters into his own hands. Can a seemingly small gift ease her pain?
Relationships: Othello/Grell Sutcliff
Comments: 15
Kudos: 61





	Four little letters

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally intended for the summer Kuroshitsuji reaperzine. Unfortunately, the project was discontinued, but I thought this would be a fitting story idea for Trans Day of Visibility (sorry that it's a few days late!). As always, comments and criticism are welcome!

Othello hated it when they called her “mister.”

Grelle knew damn well who she was, but they talked over her, willfully deaf to her screams of frustration. Time and again, she presented the evidence (“No, it’s _Miss_ Sutcliff. I’m a lady.”). Time and again, they ignored her, as wiseacres from centuries past had persisted in believing that the Earth was flat. Chop off one measly syllable, and they’d have a solution. What the hell did management mean when they said that officially changing the honorific in front of Grelle’s surname was “too complicated a process?”

He could cheerfully kick the cowards who addressed her as “Sutcliff,” if his legs weren’t scrawny as toothpicks. Their error was one of omission rather than commission, but it was equally unforgivable. They _knew_ that Grelle wasn’t a man, but they wrung their hands and twittered that Sutcliff’s ambiguity defied classification. When she proffered them the missing piece of the puzzle (“It’s _Miss_ Sutcliff, if you please. I’m a woman.”) they childishly swatted it away, choosing an incomplete picture over the inconvenient truth.

The pain ate away at her in discrete increments. With each insult, her incandescent eyes grew a few lux dimmer, and that luscious mouth like a ripe pomegranate twisted into a bitter scowl. How long could she shout into the heedless void before going hoarse? The conundrum kept Othello up at night while he lay in her arms, staring at the ceiling. If his mind could unravel death’s mysteries, why couldn’t he hit on a way to open the dispatch’s eyes? Something that would _make a statement_ …

Inspiration finally struck when he strolled past William’s office on his way to join Grelle at the canteen for lunch. He took a quick peek inside, and his eye fell on the dark wooden name plate sitting on William’s desk. The geek came to a standstill. William glanced at him irritably, pushing up his glasses in a gesture that radiated disapproval.

“Yes? What is it?”

“That’s perfect! Just the thing!” Othello exulted, racing away in a flurry of excitement. He paid no mind to William’s exasperated sigh.

It would have been an easy matter to purchase a name plate (either here or in the humans’ world), but Othello knew his girl. Giving her one he’d made _himself_ would resonate more—tangible proof that he cared. And, despite her bravado, Grelle still struggled to believe that anyone truly cared.

Othello was more accustomed to carving into flesh (mostly dead, sometimes not) with a scalpel than making office decorations. Luckily, one of the lab techs dabbled in woodworking, and he was happy to give Othello a few pointers. That weekend, Othello made his excuses to Grelle, claiming he wouldn’t be in much because of extra “time-sensitive experiments” (“A lady is very _sensitive_ about her time, too, you know. Especially when her man spends it on a bunch of smelly rats instead of with her!” she’d pouted).

Although he’d chosen a simple design (a solid walnut block with a triangular base), it was surprisingly hard to get the measurements right. He had to discard a few failed attempts before achieving the correct dimensions and acquired a couple of splinters in the process, but Grelle’s happiness was worth a little pain. He’d take it on the chin.

Then there was the critical part: Painting her name on it (in vivid red, of course).

**_Miss Grelle Sutcliff_ **

Capturing the intricate loops of the cursive letters, checking that each was the right height, confirming that he hadn’t misspelled anything (gods, she’d never forgive him if he made such a stupid mistake!). This wasn’t merely a gift, but a declaration, and there was no room for error.

On Monday morning, Othello waited until Grelle had had her first coffee ( _sans_ caffeine, the goddess could be downright demonic) to shyly present her with his offering.

“So, uh…I, um, made this for…for your desk…”

Her eyes, previously heavy with sleep, snapped open, and she snatched up the name plate. Her forefinger gently traced the “Miss.” Othello shifted his weight from foot to foot. Oh gods, what if he’d screwed up and she hated it?

Then Grelle’s lower lip quivered, and she caught Othello in a bear hug that lifted his feet clean off the ground.

“ _Je t’aime plus que tout_ , my little darling!” she sobbed. The nerd blushed to the roots of his hair.

“Gotta treat my lady right, don’t I?” he asked as he kissed her collarbone.

The rest of the day, she glowed with effervescent joy, proudly placing Othello’s gift at the very front of her desk. Though it attracted a few snickers and dirty looks, there wasn’t anything the detractors could do. There the block sat, defiantly proclaiming the truth about the woman behind it.

Othello wasn’t naïve enough to assume that the name plate would magically change attitudes at the dispatch. But, a few days later, Grelle had some exciting news to share when they met up after work.

“You won’t believe it! Will sent a little trainee my way—there are so damn many in this latest batch —and what do you think he said when he walked up to my desk?”

Othello tilted his head inquisitively, but she plunged ahead before he had a chance to reply.

“The chap took one look at your beautiful name plate, and he said ‘Good afternoon, Miss.’ Miss! Easy as _that_!” She snapped her fingers for emphasis.

Othello found himself smiling so hard his cheeks ached. “That’s great!”

“Isn’t it?! And thanks to _you_ , darling! My clever ‘thello!” She bent down to press a kiss to his cheek, leaving a lipstick imprint behind. Othello beamed up at her.

“That’s what scientists are for—showing people what’s been there all along, if they have the eyes to see.” Centuries of research in the lab had taught him that the smallest things could have dramatic repercussions.

M-I-S-S

Four little letters, but they held such power!


End file.
